


I'll Bleed Out For You

by thewonderzebra



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bergy/Marchy, But also reassurance, But the whole team is mentioned, Descriptions of serious injury, Lots of worrying, M/M, Mild hatred of Tampa Bay, Patrice does some soul searching, multi-chapter, sorta hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 22:31:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15253485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewonderzebra/pseuds/thewonderzebra
Summary: During a home game against Tampa, Marchy gets seriously hurt, and it makes Bergy realize through a lot of tears and anxiety, just how scared he is to lose his other half.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for spamming the archive with my backlogged writing while I wait for my post-op shoulder to heal. Anyway, smut warning for chapter 4. Also, medical facts have been checked out to the best of my abilities.

It happens in the first period, at home against Tampa Bay. Patrice is aware of Brad on his left--as always--until suddenly he isn't. By the time he looks over his shoulder, it's too late for him to intervene. He watches, seemingly in slow motion, as two forward linesmen gang up on his other half. Brad is tripped, and as he falls forward, is illegally checked in the head…hard. Patrice isn't sure what sound comes out of his mouth when Brad's face/head hits the ice, but he can later guess it to be a scream of some sort. 

In the moments to follow, the world around him fades to nonexistence. He can't hear the outraged noises the crowd is making, can't hear his teammates berating Tampa Bay with as much profanity as possible. He can't hear Bruce yelling for penalties to be called. All Patrice can focus on is Brad, lying face down on the ice, unconscious in a steadily growing pool of blood. On autopilot, he skates over to where Marchand is, dropping down on his knees and putting a hand on his back, only to feel his heart sink when he garners no response. 

The medical trainers come rushing onto the ice to assess the situation, with most of the Bruins roster trailing behind them. Brad is flipped onto his back, and when Patrice leans over the shoulder of the head medical trainer, he can see Brad's eyelids being lifted to reveal blown pupils. And while Patrice is far from a medical expert, he knows enough to recognize that this is bad. He tries to grab Brad's arm as he is loaded onto a stretcher and rushed down the tunnel, and is vaguely aware of himself yelling at his teammates (who have grabbed onto him) to let him go, to let him be with his other half. 

Bruce Cassidy comes onto the ice shortly thereafter, and grabs Patrice by the shoulders, centering him and leading him over to the bench while a commotion among maintenance staff ensues to clean up the puddle of Brad's blood. Patrice tries to tell the head coach the same thing he had yelled to his teammates, tries to get him to let him leave and get to the hospital. Bruce shakes his head, telling Patrice that even if he does go, there's a chance he won't even be able to see Brad until he's been assessed and is stable. The best thing Patrice can do is to play as hard as he can and not let Tampa win; it's the best way to get revenge. 

As much as he hates to admit it, Patrice knows Bruce is right. He agrees to stay, to play the game and be there for his team, because he knows Brad would expect nothing less of him. However, his nerves are frayed, and it's only a matter of time before that takes its toll. It turns out that the catalyst for Patrice to lose control is for the forward who checked Brad in the head to skate by the Bruins' bench while penalties are still being assessed. 

In that moment, rage boils over and Patrice becomes an unrecognizable shell of himself. His vision blurs and his ears stop picking up on sound. He nearly blacks out with rage, and doesn't even feel himself leaping over the bench and throwing his gloves to the ice. When he comes back to himself, he has hands in fists, gripping the offending forward by the collar of his jersey, shaking him like a rag doll and screaming at the top of his lungs about how he's about to get what's coming to him, and how Marchand's on-ice agitator antics are not enough for him to be purposely sent to the hospital. Tampa Bay's man tries to throw punches, tries to argue with Patrice, but Patrice is having none of it, easily blocking the shots and getting a few of his own in before Zee comes in and pulls him away. 

The forward who took out Brad is eventually assessed a game misconduct and ejected from the game. Another forward serves his five minute major, Patrice is given a two minute minor (which he happily serves), and play is resumed. When the assistant captain returns to the ice, his blood is still boiling but he is able to channel his rage into a drive to win. He plays harder than he has ever played in his life, assisting and scoring 5 unanswered goals throughout the entirety of the game, and cutting Tampa off at every pass they make. The opposing team never has a chance to recover, and the Bruins take a win. 

Following the game, the celebration is short-lived. The entire roster has their eyes on Patrice in the locker room as he rushes to shower and change. He congratulates the rest of the team for playing hard, and checks in with Bruce, who pats him on the back and nods toward the door. The assistant captain needs no further explanation. After rushing through his goodbyes, he hurries out the door and makes his way to the hospital.


	2. Chapter 2

Patrice all but crashes through the ER doors at Mass General, frantic in his searching. He asks every nurse he can find where Brad is, but no one seems to know. Exasperated, he begs someone to just look up what is going on with his fiancé. Finally, he talks to a resident who gives him news that makes his heart shatter then and there: Brad was brought in with a broken nose and a brain bleed that was so severe it warranted emergency surgery to relieve the pressure in his brain.

In a voice so hesitant it seems like it couldn’t possibly belong to him, Patrice asks how soon he can see Brad. He is promptly informed that, in fact, Brad is still in surgery and won’t be moved to an ICU bed until the surgeons have done what they need to do. Patrice isn’t sure what face he ends up making, but his expression seems to provoke a panicked response among the medical staff. He is finally brought upstairs to wait in the waiting room for surgical intensive care patients, and given a pager that he can check for updates from the surgical team. 

The waiting room is almost completely empty at this time of night, meaning Patrice has plenty of room to pace. And pace he does. As he walks back and forth, he contemplates the kind of pain Brad will be in, how both of them will handle it. The words of the resident down in the ER resonate with him, and he begins to feel anxious over the possibility that Brad may not survive surgery…even if he does, he may not wake up. Patrice’s stomach turns at the prospect of life without his soulmate, and he has to bite his lip to fight off tears. 

He is brought out of his nervous reverie by the sound of his info pager sounding. The message displayed, that Brad is out of surgery and being moved to a room, gives Patrice a surge of hope. He continues pacing, waiting with bated breath until a nurse comes into the waiting room, calling for him (by proxy, since they call Brad’s name) and motioning for him to follow—which he does, dutifully. 

As they walk toward the ICU, the nurse explains Brad’s condition. The surgery was a success, and he is now breathing on his own. His pupils are reactive to light, and his reflexes are relatively normal, but he remains unconscious. It is all a waiting game, now, and there’s no telling when Brad will wake up. Patrice thanks the nurse for her help as they found the corner, and braces himself for settling at the hospital as long as it takes for his other half to return to consciousness. 

The first thing Patrice is struck by, as he walks into Brad's room, is how small and fragile his other half looks. There is a bandage wrapping its way around his head, a nasal cannula resting just above his upper lip, delivering him oxygen. A pulse/ox monitor is wrapped around one finger, and an IV line is fastened to his arm, infusing saline and (presumably) pain medication. His skin--aside from the dark bruising on his nose and under his eyes--is so pale, even against the stark white of the hospital bedsheets, and his already small frame looks dwarfed entirely. Patrice can't ever remember seeing Brad like this, and it nearly takes his breath away. 

By Brad's bed, there is a cot made up, but Patrice is having none of it. All he wants is to curl up in bed with his other half, and if he can't be at home, he's going to make the best of the situation he's in. Gingerly, he lowers himself onto the bed beside Brad, wrapping an arm around him as he rests his head on the pillow. He is content to watch him, watch the way his chest rises and falls, shallow but even--and suddenly, Patrice can't hold himself together anymore. 

He presses himself as close to Brad as he can, burying his face in his neck and letting the tears fall freely. As he cries quietly, he murmurs brokenly, telling him what happened. He tells Brad about the hit, about how he blanked out for several minutes in the aftermath. He tells him that he dropped his gloves and had words with the guy who took him out, and how Bruce had had to force him to play, which he did, going above and beyond to make sure Tampa couldn't win. Most of all, though, he tells him that he loves him, he misses him, and he wants him to come back. 

So it goes for three straight days. Patrice remains glued to Brad's side, both in the bed with him and sitting in the chair by his bedside. Krejci brings him a change of clothes, knowing he likely wouldn't go home, and Zee comes by to check on both of them. Patrice is grateful for the tenderness, but he is even more grateful when he can just be alone with Brad's unconscious form. He accepts food from the nurses who come in to monitor Brad, but eats sparingly, his stomach still in knots as long as Brad is lying in a hospital bed. 

When no one is in the room besides him and Brad, Patrice cries a lot. He kisses Brad's cheek, his neck, and his hand, hoping he can feel it and it somehow brings him comfort. The sound of the heart rate monitor beeping becomes oppressive after a while, so Patrice also talks to Brad. His voice is quiet and hesitant as he tries to talk about nothing in particular; he's not good at this, the filling of silence. He usually leaves that to Brad, and right now, that is one of the things he misses the most. 

On the third night, when there is no change, Patrice begins to feel frantic. He stares at Brad's unconscious face, and feels himself tear up. He looks so peaceful, while Patrice feels like he is in utter turmoil. Not wanting him to feel alone, even in his current state of half-existence, Patrice makes another attempt at talking to Brad, telling him how much he means. 

"I don't know if you can hear me, Marchy," he says, his voice wobbling dangerously. "But god, I miss you. I miss your voice, your smile, your laugh…everything. I should have told you I love you before the game, before you got hit, and I'm going to regret that every day until you're better. You have to get better, ange…I don't know how I'd live without you, and I don't want to find out. So please, please, Marchy, please come back to me." 

Since he is crying softly again, Patrice misses the way Brad has begun twitching beside him. Then, he hears his other half's voice, tired and weak, but very much present. "Bergy," he croaks, and Patrice almost screams as he sits up, to see Brad's eyes slowly fluttering open. �"Why don't you ask me to marry you already?" 

In that moment, Patrice's heart sinks. He hadn't thought to ask about amnesia, but he supposes he should have. With a hit to the head as violent as the one Brad had sustained, he should have known it was a possibility. Patrice silently curses whatever deities that have allowed this to happen to his love. Then, he watches Brad slowly raise his shaking left hand, a tired but still cheeky smile gracing his face. 

"Just kidding." Marchand says this weakly, and he nods toward the engagement band on his left ring finger. "I know you already did." 

Patrice starts sobbing all over again. His tears stream down his cheeks and splash not only the pillow, but Brad's hospital gown as well. This time, though, he is crying out of pure, unadulterated happiness. Not only is his fiancé awake, but in typical Marchand fashion, is joking and chirping. 

Beside Patrice, Brad shifts, turning onto his side slowly and weakly. The left winger presses himself in close, and touches his fiancé's face, gently kissing his cheeks to catch his tears. "Hey," he whispers. "Don't cry, Bergy. I'm here. I'm alive, and I'm not going anywhere, okay?" He punctuates his words by touching his forehead to Patrice's. 

Patrice sniffles and tries to put his emotions back together, pulling away slightly when he realizes how exhausted Brad looks. "Ange," he murmurs, voice thick with the remnants of tears. "You just woke up. You're going to hurt yourself, eh?" 

Brad laughs softly, a barely audible sound, and brushes his thumb across Patrice's cheek. "I'm okay," he assures. "My head's a little sore and I'm tired, but I'm okay. But you know, I'd feel a lot better if you held me like you do at home." 

It's a simple request, but Patrice is happy to oblige. He is oh-so-careful as he wraps Brad in his arms, avoiding bumping his bandaged head. But Brad settles easily, weaving his legs into Patrice's, head pillowing on his chest. "That feels good," he hums when Patrice starts rubbing his back. "I'm glad I'm awake and that you're here." 

"Of course I'm here," Patrice murmurs, brushing a barely-there kiss to Brad's bandaged skull. "As long as you're still fighting, I'll be here to take care of you. I love you." 

There is something so incredibly soothing about being in Patrice's arms, hearing his voice and listening to his heartbeat. Though Brad tries to avoid admitting how tired he is, his body overrides his brain's desire to stay awake. Patrice murmurs that Brad needs his rest, that he won't be offended if he falls asleep. And, knowing his fiancé has no intention of leaving his side, that he'll be there through thick and thin (that is what they promised each other when they got together) makes Brad feel more relaxed than his morphine drip ever could, and he soon falls asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of sex here. Also, a bit of a panic attack.

True to his word, Patrice remains glued to Brad's side, caring and attentive and gentle as ever while his other half recovers. Brad, being who he is, bounces back quickly. He jokes and smiles the entire time he is in the hospital, and spends every possible moment touching or kissing Patrice for comfort's sake. He even jokes to Patrice that once he's better, it will literally be impossible for his brains to be fucked out--which is met with an exaggerated eye roll from Patrice and a half-hearted threat to banish Brad to the couch as soon as they get home. 

When they get home, Patrice is no less attentive to Brad and observant of his recovery. Brad is anxious to get back to training, back in the gym, back on the ice. It is a source of frustration, but Patrice offers words of encouragement, and reminds him to be patient. The frustration is eased some by Brad pulling Patrice in for passionate kisses, and initiating (with the neurosurgeon's permission) even more intimate contact. However, Brad can tell Patrice is hesitant to touch him with his usual spontaneity, likely fearful of causing him further injury; and while he understands this fear, he misses the roughness of Patrice pinning him down and dominating him completely. 

Even when Brad has done more healing, and returns to rehabilitating his strength and skill on the ice (with Patrice attending every training session, working out, and skating alongside him), Patrice continues to be hesitant in the bedroom. After a particularly difficult training session in which he stumbled a lot and had the wind knocked out of him, Brad wants to drag Patrice to bed and beg him to fuck him senseless in order to relieve the emotional tension he feels. What he gets, though, is achingly slow kisses and frustratingly light, gentle touches. Patrice doesn't even so much as nip Brad's lower lip; he touches him with a fragility reserved for restoring priceless works of art or transporting a Faberge egg…and Brad wants to scream. 

"Jesus, Bergy," the left winger mutters, pulling away from his love's kiss as they stand at the foot of their bed. "You can go harder, you know. Rough sex isn't going to kill me. It's almost like you don't want to fuck me at all." He means his words to come out as a prompt, as a chirp. But Patrice takes a step back, eyes flashing dangerously, and Brad knows he's hit a nerve. 

"Of course I want to fuck you," Patrice hisses. "Maybe rough sex isn't going to kill you, but I refuse to be the one to test that theory. Or did you forget that you almost died?" 

Brad tilts his head to the side. "What's this about?" he asks. "I'm fine." He can see Patrice's muscles shaking with agitation, and he can't ever remember seeing him this worked up. 

"What's this about?" Patrice parrots, voice rising and shaking dangerously. "You almost got killed, Marchy, that's what this is about. I'm fucking terrified to do something that could hurt you because I watched you get hit. I watched you fall, and watched you be unconscious in a pool of your own blood. You bled your BRAIN onto the ice, Brad, and it's all I can think about." 

Patrice pauses, taking a breath, but his blood is boiling in his veins and he is far from finished. Brad at least has the sense to remain quiet--for now. "Every time I close my eyes," the assistant captain grits out through clenched teeth. "All I can see is you, not moving and not responding. I hear the doctors telling me over and over that they weren't sure you were going to wake up or even live. I cried every day you were lying in that hospital bed and I still cry about how close I came to losing you; I just don't let you see it. I can't fucking sleep anymore, because it's all I can dream about and I'm afraid that if I wake up you won't be here."

He shakes his head, hot tears stinging his eyelids. "Fuck, Marchy, you think I don't want to have sex with you? It's all I want. But I refuse to go any harder than what I've been doing right now, because there's something in my brain reminding me how close I came to losing you. And I can't deal with that thought, Brad. I just can't. You're my soulmate, and everything that's been going through my brain has been related to how the fuck I'd be able to go on living if you weren't here.  
So don't you dare go joking with me or accusing me of not loving you enough to be rough with you, when all I can do is love you enough not to hurt you while I'm falling apart." 

Finished with his rant, Patrice looks away, sniffling as tears begin rolling down his cheeks. He isn't surprised when Brad steps close to him again and puts a hand on his arm, but he still flinches. He is silent, though, as Brad leads him to lie down on their bed, and then climbs up beside him, wrapping his smaller frame around Patrice's and holding him tightly. 

Gently, Brad kisses Patrice's neck, and the shell of his ear while Patrice begins to shake with silent sobs. "God, Patrice," he murmurs. "I had no idea you were hurting like that. I didn't know you saw the hit, and I wish you hadn't had to. I'd give anything to take it back, to make sure you didn't have to see me fall. It was easy for me, you know? I was skating one minute and waking up in the hospital with a headache the next. I should have guessed you were the one to pick up the literal and figurative pieces, especially when the team said you lost your shit on the guy that took me out." 

Patrice, who has been laying with his back to Brad, turns over in his fiancé's arms, and clutches at him like a drowning man would hold onto a life preserver. Brad begins rubbing Patrice's back in the way he knows he likes, and kisses his temple before offering more hushed apologies. "I never ever wanted to cause you that kind of pain, Bergy," he says. "I'm so, so sorry for everything: the nightmares, the tears, the anxiety. I know I don't deserve your undivided attention, and fuck, I'm so grateful I have it. I swear I won't push you on the sex issue, and I won't joke about it now that I know, okay? I just want you to know that I know you would never--could never--hurt me even if you tried, and I promise I'm in this forever, for as long as it takes for you to be okay again, just like you are with me." 

Even as Patrice nods his understanding, he sobs violently. Brad is unwavering in the way he holds him, the way he rocks his frame side to side. He rubs his back and kisses his hair, his forehead, his cheeks. "I love you," he repeats over and again. "I love you so much. I'm so sorry, Bergy." They stay like this until Patrice has no tears left to cry, and he falls into the deepest, most dreamless sleep he's had in weeks, cocooned in the warmth and safety of Brad's arms.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter. Some anxiety, some hockey, a lot of smut.

A few weeks more, and Brad returns to the Bruins lineup at Patrice's left. They play as effortlessly and smoothly as ever, and for a moment Patrice is able to forget that anything happened. Then, late in the second period, Brad is tripped and goes falling to the ice. Patrice's heart stops, and Pasta skating up to him asking what happened is the only thing that keeps him from having a full-blown panic attack. 

Thankfully, Brad gets up just as quickly as he fell, and play is stopped while the referees review the call. In that time span, the left winger skates easily over to his fiancé, and touches him on the arm with one hand, his other hand (holding his stick) up in a surrendering-type motion. "I'm alright," he assures, knowing it's what Patrice wants, no…needs…to hear. "I'm here. See? It's all good." He leans in and taps his forehead against Patrice's--the closest thing they can manage to a kiss in the middle of the game--and they go back to playing. 

Later that night, after the Bruins take another win, Brad and Patrice head home. Brad seems to carry a lot of restless energy, despite having played his heart out, and Patrice still seems nervous, like the other shoe is going to drop at any given moment. As they get ready for bed, Brad brushes up against Patrice at every opportunity, using his physical presence to let his love know that he is, in fact, alive and well, even though Patrice's anxiety is telling him to fear the alternative. 

Before they climb into bed, Brad leans in and kisses Patrice. It is gentle, at first, but it escalates quickly to leave them both breathless. "I know you're hesitant to be rough with me," Brad acknowledges, panting slightly. "But what if I was rough with you? How would you feel about me being in control tonight?"

Patrice looks uncomfortable for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck and flushing. But he isn't blind. He can see how much Brad needs the release, and he doesn't want to deprive him. If he's being honest with himself, the release of pent-up energy wouldn't be so bad for him, either. He appreciates how the first thing Brad did after falling tonight was get up and show him he was okay without any teasing, so he decides to give a bit. 

The assistant captain nods, and holds out his hands. "Okay," he agrees. "Take control. Go for it." 

Brad, who hadn't been expecting this level of "give", looks positively delighted. With one more look that affirms his other half's consent, he pulls Patrice toward him, then promptly pushes him onto the bed and straddles him. He kisses him hard, battling his tongue for dominance, and grabbing his wrists to pin them above his head. "Keep your arms up here for me," Brad commands, and Patrice nods. 

Marchand resumes kissing his fiancé, nipping and sucking marks onto his skin as he moves his mouth from Bergeron's lips, down the column of his throat, and all over his chest. He re-maps Patrice's body with his hands, pulling off articles of clothing as he goes along, and grinding his hips against Patrice's thighs, making him moan. Finally, both their clothes have been shed, and Brad's mouth is hovering just above Patrice's throbbing cock. 

Patrice lets out a whimper, and that is all the encouragement Brad needs, sucking him into his mouth and lapping at him with his tongue. It is all Patrice can do to follow instructions and keep his hands still on the pillow above his head, when he wants more than anything to tangle his hands in Brad's soft hair and hold his head in place. Instead, he moans and whimpers, calling Brad's name intermixed with expletives and murmurs of nonsense in French. 

When Patrice is literally seconds away from coming, Brad pulls off of him with a smirk. The assistant captain has half a thought to glare at his other half, but soon finds himself shocked and screaming when Brad thrusts his own dick inside of him. His startled noise is quickly swallowed by Marchand's lips on his, kissing and soothing while his hips establish a relentless pace, stroking Patrice from the inside out. 

"Fuck, you're so tight," Brad moans in Patrice's ear, nipping at his throat and soothing the marks with kisses. "So hot for me, Bergy. I want to make you fall apart. Want to hear you screaming my name." 

One of Brad's hands comes to grasp Patrice's wrists, holding them together above his head still. His other hand wraps around Patrice's cock, stroking and twisting to drive him mad. Patrice instinctively bucks his hips, wanting more contact, wanting Brad deeper inside him, wanting…wanting. Brad meets him with every movement, knowing he will likely leave bruises with how hard he is fucking Patrice, but he wants to prove that he's 100 percent, wants to prove rough sex is everything they both need in this moment. 

"Oh," Patrice pants, feeling himself begin to tremble beginning with his deepest internal walls. "Fuck. Just like that, Marchy. Feels so good." 

Brad smiles and kisses Patrice hard. "You like when I fuck you like this?" he asks. Patrice nods, and he rewards him with a gentler kiss than before. "Good. Don't think about anything else but me inside you, me touching you." 

Patrice's hands curl into fists and his breathing becomes more ragged as Brad increases his pace, hitting the spot inside of Patrice that guarantees to have him seeing stars. "Crisse," he pants. "Brad. Going to come soon." 

In turn, Brad's response is to stroke Patrice's length more roughly. "Then come for me, Bergy," he coos. "I can feel you shaking. Do it. Come for me." 

Whether it is the feeling of Brad inside him, hand wrapped around his cock, or his words, Patrice isn't sure. All he knows is that his vision blurs and he feels like he's been kicked in the stomach. He comes, shouting and whimpering Brad's name on repeat as he shakes and shivers, spilling all over Brad's hand and his own stomach. In the moments to follow, the way Patrice begins clenching around Brad's dick, sending the left winger over the edge as well, moaning Patrice's name and collapsing on top of him despite the mess on his abdomen. 

It takes some time for them to clean up and get back into their sleeping clothes (given how shaky their legs are), but when they do, Brad pulls Patrice into his arms once more. He cradles his head against his chest and rubs his back, kissing the crown of his head oh-so-softly. "I'm okay," he says, knowing it is repetitive but exactly what his other half needs to hear. "I'm alright and I'm not going anywhere, no matter how rough we get. I love you so, so much." 

Patrice exhales a sigh of relief, and kisses Brad's collarbone. He hadn't realized just how much he needed the roughness, but he feels infinitely better now. "I love you, too. Thank you for making me realize how much we both needed that," he murmurs. "I'm so grateful you're still here." 

Brad feels himself tear up at that, and he buries his nose in Patrice's hair to mask his sniffles. "I am too," he whispers. "And I promise I'll never willingly make you find out what not having me is like." He lets his tears fall and holds Patrice tightly; Patrice clings and lets his own tears fall, and they stay wrapped up until they finally fall asleep, feeling safe and content.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it. As always, let me know what you think! Come yell with/at me on Tumblr @thewonderzebra.


End file.
